Can You Keep a Secret?

by Sophie Kinsella

  “What?” I look up, still laughing, until suddenly I realize that Jack’s stopped. He’s looking at me with an unreadable expression on his face.

  “Why are you with that guy?” he repeats.

  I push my hair back off my face. “What do you mean?”

  “Connor Martin. He’s not going to make you happy. He’s not going to fulfill you.”

  For a moment I’m wrong-footed. “Who says?”

  “I’ve gotten to know Connor. I’ve sat in meetings with him. I’ve seen how his mind works. He’s a nice guy—but you need more than a nice guy.” Jack gives me a long, shrewd look. “My guess is, you don’t really want to move in with him. But you’re afraid of ducking out.”

  I feel a swell of indignation. How dare he read my mind and get it so … so wrong. Of course I want to move in with Connor.

  “Actually, you’re quite mistaken,” I say in cutting tones. “I’m looking forward to moving in with him. In fact … in fact, I was just sitting at my desk, thinking how I can’t wait!”

  Jack’s shaking his head. “You need someone with a spark. Who … excites you.”

  “I told you, I didn’t mean what I said on the plane. Connor does excite me!” I give him a defiant look. “You know when you found us in the archive room? You want to guess what we were doing?”

  “I’m pretty sure I know what you were doing,” says Jack. “I assumed it was a desperate attempt to spice up your love life.”

  “That was not a desperate attempt to spice up my love life!” I almost spit at him. “That was simply a … a spontaneous act of passion.”

  “Sorry. My mistake.”

  “Anyway, why do you care?” I fold my arms. “What does it matter to you whether I’m happy or not?”

  There’s a sharp silence, and suddenly I realize I’m breathing rather quickly. I meet his dark eyes and quickly look away again.

  “I’ve asked myself that same question,” says Jack. “Maybe it’s because we experienced that extraordinary plane ride together. Maybe it’s because you’re the only person in this whole company who hasn’t put on some kind of phony act for me.”

  I would have put on an act! I feel like retorting. If I’d had a choice!

  “Maybe it’s because you make me laugh,” he adds.

  I feel a rush of surprise. I make him laugh? In a good way?

  “I guess what I’m saying is … I feel as if you’re a friend,” Jack continues. “And I care what happens to my friends.”

  “Oh,” I say, and rub my nose.

  I’m about to say politely that he feels like a friend, too, when he adds, “Plus, anyone who recites Woody Allen films line for line has to be a loser.”

  I feel a surge of outrage on Connor’s behalf. “You don’t know anything about it!” I exclaim. “You know, I wish I’d never sat next to you on that stupid plane. You go around saying all these things to … to wind me up, behaving as though you know me better than anyone else—”

  “Maybe I do,” he says quick as lightning.

  “What?”

  “Maybe I do know you better than anyone else.”

  I feel a breathless mixture of outrage and exhilaration. It’s as though we’re playing tennis. Or dancing.

  “You do not know me better than anyone else!” I retort in the most scathing tones I can muster.

  “I know you won’t end up with Connor Martin.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “I do.” He’s starting to laugh.

  “No, you don’t! If you want to know, I’ll probably end up marrying Connor!”

  “Marry Connor?” says Jack, as though this were the funniest joke he’s ever heard.

  “Yes! Why not? He’s tall, and he’s handsome, and he’s kind, and he’s very … He’s …” I’m floundering slightly. “And anyway, this is my personal life! You’re my boss, and you only met me last week, and frankly this is none of your business!”

  Jack’s laughter vanishes, and he looks as though I’ve slapped him. For a few moments he says nothing. Then he takes a step back and releases the lift button. “You’re right,” he says. The teasing edge has vanished from his voice. “Your personal life is none of my business. I overstepped the mark … and I apologize.”

  I feel a spasm of dismay. “I … I didn’t mean—”

  “No. You’re right.” He stares at the floor for a few moments, then looks up. “So, I leave for the States tomorrow. It’s been a very pleasant stay, and I’d like to thank you for all your help. Will I see you at the drinks party tonight?”

  “I … I don’t know,” I say.

  The atmosphere has disintegrated.

  This is awful. I’m standing, clenching the folders more and more tightly. Jack’s face is impassive. I want to say something, I want to put it back to the way it was before, all easy and joking. But I can’t find the words.

  We reach the ninth floor, and the doors open.

  “I think I can manage these from here,” Jack says. “I really only asked you along for the company.”

  Awkwardly, I transfer the folders to his arms.

  “Well, Emma,” he says in the same formal voice, “in case I don’t see you later on … it was nice knowing you.” He meets my eyes, and a glimmer of his old, warm expression returns. “I really mean that.”

  “You, too.”

  I don’t want him to go. I feel like suggesting a quick drink. I feel like clinging on to his hand and saying, “Don’t leave.” I don’t want this to be the end.

  God, what’s wrong with me?

  “Have a good journey,” I manage as he shakes my hand. Then he turns on his heel and walks off down the corridor.

  I open my mouth to call after him—but what would I say? By tomorrow morning he’ll be on a plane back to his life. And I’ll be left here in mine.

  I feel leaden for the rest of the day. Everyone else is talking about going out for a drink tonight, but I leave work half an hour early. I go straight home to an empty flat—Lissy’s doing a case in Birmingham and Jemima’s probably having a French manicure or something. I make myself some hot chocolate, and am sitting on the sofa, lost in my own thoughts, when Connor lets himself into the flat.

  I look up as he walks into the room, and immediately I know something’s different. Not with him. He hasn’t changed a bit.

  But I have. I’ve changed.

  “Hi,” he says, and kisses me lightly on the head. “Shall we go?”

  “Go?”

  “To look at the flat on Edith Road! Oh, and my mother’s given us a housewarming present. It was delivered to work.”

  He hands me a cardboard box, and I pull out a glass teapot.

  “You can keep the tea leaves separate from the water. Mum says it really does make a better cup of tea—”

  “Connor …” I hear myself saying. “I can’t do this.”

  “It’s quite easy. You just have to lift the—”

  “No.” I shut my eyes, trying to gather some courage. At last I open them again. “I can’t do this. I can’t move in with you.”

  “What?” Connor’s face kind of freezes. “Has something happened?”

  “Yes. No.” I swallow. “I’ve been having doubts for a while. About us. And recently they’ve … they’ve been confirmed. If we carry on, I’ll be a hypocrite. It’s not fair to either of us.”

  “What? Emma, are you saying you want to … to …”

  “I want to break up,” I say, my eyes fixed on the carpet.

  “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not joking!” I say in sudden anguish. This is harder than I was expecting. Connor looks so totally crushed. Although what was I expecting? That he’d say, “Hmm, yes, good idea”?

  “But … this is ridiculous! It’s ridiculous!” Connor’s pacing around the room like an agitated lion. Suddenly he looks at me.

  “It’s that plane journey.”

  “What?” Every cell in m
y body jumps. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been different ever since that plane ride down from Scotland!”

  “No, I haven’t!”

  “You have! You’ve been edgy; you’ve been tense.…” Connor squats down in front of me and takes my hands. “Emma, I think maybe you’re still suffering some kind of trauma. You could have counseling.…”

  “Connor, I don’t need counseling!” I jerk my hands away. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe that plane ride did …” I swallow. “… affect me. Maybe it brought my life into perspective and made me realize a few things. And one of the things I’ve realized is, we aren’t right for each other.”

  Slowly Connor sinks down onto the carpet, bewildered. “But things have been great! We’ve been having lots of sex—”

  “I know.”

  “Is there someone else?”

  “No!” I say sharply. “Of course there’s no one else!” My thoughts swirl in uncertain circles. Why can’t he stop quizzing me?

  “This isn’t you talking!” says Connor suddenly. “It’s just the mood you’re in. I’ll run you a nice, hot bath, light some scented candles …”

  “Connor, please!” I exclaim. “No more scented candles! You have to listen to me. And you have to believe me.” I look straight into his eyes. “I want to break up.”

  “I don’t believe you!” he says, shaking his head. “I know you, Emma! You’re not that kind of person! You wouldn’t just throw away something like that! You wouldn’t—”

  He stops in shock as, with no warning, I hurl the glass teapot to the floor.

  Stunned, we both watch it bounce on the floorboards.

  “It was supposed to break,” I explain after a pause. “And that was going to signify that yes, I would throw something away, if I knew it wasn’t right for me.”

  “I think it has broken,” says Connor, picking it up and examining it. “At least, there’s a hairline crack.”

  “There you go.”

  “We could still use it—”

  “No. We couldn’t.”

  “We could get some Sellotape—”

  “But it would never work properly. It just … wouldn’t work.”

  “I see,” says Connor after a pause.

  And I think, finally, he does.

  “Well … I’ll be off, then,” he says at last. “I’ll phone the flat people and tell them that we’re …” He stops and takes a deep breath. “You’ll want your keys back, too.”

  “Thanks,” I say in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine. “Can we keep it quiet from everyone at work?” I add. “Just for the moment.”

  “Of course,” he says gruffly. “I won’t say anything.”

  He’s halfway out the door when suddenly he turns back, reaching in his pocket. “Emma … here are the tickets for the jazz festival. You have them.”

  “What?” I stare at them in horror. “No! Connor, you have them! They’re yours!”

  “You have them. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to hearing the Dennisson Quartet.” He pushes the brightly colored tickets roughly into my hand, together with the keys of the flat, and closes my fingers over them.

  “I … I …” I swallow. “Connor … I just … I don’t know what to say …”

  “We’ll always have jazz,” says Connor in a choked-up voice, and closes the door behind him.

  Eleven

  So now I have no promotion and no boyfriend. And everyone thinks I’m mad.

  “You’re mad,” Jemima says approximately every ten minutes. It’s Saturday morning, and we’re in our usual routine of dressing gowns and coffee and nursing hangovers. Or, in my case, breakups. “You do realize you had him?” She frowns at her toenail, which she’s painting baby pink. “I would have predicted a rock on your finger within six months.”

  “I thought you said I’d ruined all my chances by agreeing to move in with him,” I say sulkily.

  “Well, in Connor’s case I think you would have been safe.” She shakes her head. “You’re crazy.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy?” I say, turning to Lissy, who’s sitting in the rocking chair with her arm around her knees, eating a piece of raisin toast. “Be honest.”

  “Er, no!” says Lissy unconvincingly. “Of course not!”

  “You do!”

  “It’s just … you just seemed like such a great couple.”

  “I know we did. I know we looked great on the outside.” I pause, trying to explain. “But the truth is, I never felt I was being myself. It was always a bit like we were … acting. You know. It didn’t seem real, somehow—”

  “That’s it?” interrupts Jemima, as though I’m talking gibberish. “That’s the reason you broke up!”

  “It’s a pretty good reason, don’t you think?” says Lissy loyally.

  “Of course not! Emma, if you’d just stuck it out and acted being the perfect couple for long enough … you would have become the perfect couple.”

  “But … but we wouldn’t have been happy!”

  “You would have been the perfect couple,” says Jemima, as though explaining something to a stupid child. “Obviously you would have been happy.” She cautiously stands up, her toes splayed by bits of pink foam, and starts making her way toward the door. “And anyway. Everyone pretends in a relationship.”

  “No, they don’t! Or at least, they shouldn’t …”

  “Of course they should! Mummy says all this being honest with each other is totally overrated! She’s been married to Daddy for thirty years, and he still has no idea she isn’t a natural blonde.”

  As Jemima disappears out of the room, I exchange glances with Lissy. “Do you think she’s right?” I say.

  “No,” says Lissy uncertainly. “Of course not! Relationships should be built on … on trust … and truth …” She pauses and looks at me anxiously. “Emma, you never told me you felt that way about Connor.”

  “I … didn’t tell anyone.” This isn’t quite true, I immediately realize. But I’m hardly going to let on to my best friend that I told more to a complete stranger than to her, am I?

  “Well, I really wish you’d confided in me more,” says Lissy earnestly. “Emma, let’s make a new resolution. We’ll tell each other everything from now on. We shouldn’t have secrets from each other, anyway! We’re best friends!”

  “It’s a deal!” I say with a warm burst of emotion. Impulsively I lean forward and give her a hug.

  Lissy’s so right. We shouldn’t keep things from each other. I mean, we’ve been friends for over twenty years!

  “So, if we’re telling each other everything …” Lissy takes a bite of raisin toast and gives me a sidelong look. “Did your chucking Connor have anything to do with that man? The man from the plane?”

  I feel a pang, which I ignore by taking a sip of coffee. “No,” I say without looking up. “Nothing.”

  We both watch the television screen for a few moments, where Kylie Minogue is being interviewed.

  “Oh, OK!” I say, suddenly remembering. “So, if we’re asking each other questions … what were you really doing with that guy Jean-Paul in your room?”

  Lissy takes a breath.

  “And don’t tell me you were looking at case notes,” I add. “Because that wouldn’t make all that thumping, bumping noise.”

  “Oh!” says Lissy, looking cornered. “OK. Well … we were …” She takes a gulp of coffee and avoids my gaze. “We were, um, having sex.”

  “What?” I stare at her, disconcerted.

  “Yes. We were having sex. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you. I was embarrassed.”

  “You and Jean-Paul were having sex?”

  “Yes!” She clears her throat. “We were having … passionate … raunchy … animalistic sex.”

  There’s something wrong here. Something about her tone just doesn’t ring true. When Lissy talks about sex, that’s not how she sounds. And she’d never use the word “animalistic.” Or “raunchy,” for that matter.
r />   She’s lying!

  “I don’t believe you!” I give her a long look. “You weren’t having sex!”

  The pink dots on Lissy’s cheeks immediately deepen in color. “Yes, we were!”

  “No, you weren’t. Lissy, what were you really doing?”

  “We were having sex, OK?” says Lissy, now agitated. “He’s my new boyfriend, and … that’s what we were doing! Now, just leave me alone!” She gets up, scattering raisin toast crumbs, and heads out of the room, tripping slightly on the rug.

  Why is she lying? What on earth was she doing in there? What’s more embarrassing than sex, for God’s sake? I’m so intrigued, I almost feel cheered up.

  To be honest, it’s not the greatest weekend of my life. It’s made even less great when the post arrives and I get a postcard from Mum and Dad from Le Spa Meridien, telling me what a fantastic time they’re having. And even less great when I read my horoscope in the Mail, and it tells me, “You may just have made a rash mistake. Examine your motives carefully.”

  I lie in bed on Saturday night, unable to sleep. Then, at about three in the morning, I find myself replaying that final meeting with Jack over and over in my mind. I even start composing light, friendly postcards to send him in America. Hope you had a good trip back … It was great to meet you …

  But who am I kidding? I’m not going to send him any card. He’s probably forgotten who I am already. It was an interesting experience meeting him—and now it’s over.

  By the time I wake up on Monday morning, I feel a lot better. My new life starts today. I’m going to forget all about love and romance and concentrate on my career. As I get ready for work, I reach for my smartest trousers and a neck scarf that isn’t very nice but shouts “career woman.” I’ll show Paul who’s ready for a promotion.

  Maybe I’ll even look for a new job. Yes!

  As I come out of the tube station, I fantasize applying for a job as marketing executive at Coca-Cola. And I’ll get it. And Paul will suddenly realize what a terrible mistake he made, not promoting me. And he’ll ask me to stay, but I’ll say, “It’s too late. You had your chance.” And then he’ll beg, “Emma, is there anything I can do to change your mind?” And then I’ll say—